Firebrand
by RadiantSeraphina
Summary: Whether Katniss Everdeen was a saint, a warrior, or a goddess doesn't matter. All that matters is because of her the children in the Capital compete each year in the Hunger Games. My name is John Watson, and today might mark the end of my life.


**Disclaimer: I have no legal right to Sherlock or The Hunger Games.**

Also, I'll admit that there won't be many Hunger Games characters in here, mostly just mentions here and there, along with some Capital technology stuff.

* * *

My palms sweat as I stand beside my older sister Harry. I can barely breathe, and the sun beats down on us so harshly that I think I might faint. I might faint anyway if my name is called. There is a chance that today marks the end of my life. Today is the Reaping.

I owe my dubious fate to a woman named Katniss Everdeen. I call her a woman because it's as good a word as any. Most people think she was a woman. Some say she was a goddess. They say she was the goddess of fire, of war, of courage, and of heroes. She's associated with the mockingjay. People say a lot of things about Katniss Everdeen, but none of them matter. All that matters is this: many years ago, there was a great and powerful nation. Civil war broke the nation, and when the Capital took control, they divided the scattered pieces into districts and took tributes from each one to fight in the Hunger Games as the price for rebellion. Years later, the districts rebelled and took the Capital. Now the Capital's children compete in the Hunger Games, and one of those children is me.

Katniss Everdeen—if you believe she exists—is credited with sparking the second rebellion. Whether she was a saint, a warrior, or a goddess doesn't matter. All that matter s is that twenty-three people are about to fight to death in an arena, and today is when the names will be drawn.

The woman drawing the names is from District 12. It's always someone from District 12 who draws the names. That District became the new capital after the second rebellion, but the names never changed. District 12 was either Katniss's home or the place where she was worshipped the most. No one knows precisely which. The woman is tall and slender with skin the color of unlined paper, blindingly orange eyeshadow, and brown eyes. The woman's red hair falls over her shoulders and over her dress that looks as if it's made of flames. It's an ode to Katniss Everdeen. Everything is an ode to Katniss Everdeen.

"Today marks the start of the one-hundredth annual Hunger Games!" the woman exclaims, her voice sounding oddly deep and slow—like molasses, maybe.

No one cheers. The woman winks. "May the odds be _ever _in your favor," she continues, twirling a slender hand over one of the glass orbs holding the names. "As always, ladies first!"

Ladies. Girls. Please, please, I pray, don't let it be Harry. If Harry's name is drawn, she'll have to go. There are rules to the Hunger Games; you can take someone else's place. If Harry was a man, I could take her place, but she's not. She's Harriet Watson, and since I'm male, I couldn't. If she's chosen, she'll have no one. "Sally Donovan!" the woman exclaims.

Not Harry. Eleven more women.

The announcer waits until Sally Donovan, a dark-skinned girl with thick, curly hair steps onto the stage to choose the next contestant.

"Molly Hooper!"

Not Harry. Ten more names.

"Jennifer Wilson."

Still not Harry.

"Irene Adler."

Eight more names. Harry still hasn't been picked.

"Catherine Rhodes."

Nope. Only seven more names.

"Brenda Woods!"

Six more.

"Mary Morstan."

Five. All right.

"Violet Hunter."

Four. I'm still all right. Harry's still all right.

"Kitty Reily."

Three. Just three more…three more.

"Sarah Sawyer."

Two. Two more names.

"Marie Turner."

One more name. Okay.

"Soo Lin."

I can't help the sigh of relief that comes. It's selfish and terrible, but I'm relieved beyond words. Harry wasn't chosen! The announcer smiles and winks again. Then, she strides to the other bowl. I feel even fainter, if that's possible. It's time for the men. Twelve more names. Twelve names, and one could be mine. "James Moriarty!"

That's not me. I'm still safe, then. Eleven more names.

"Gregory Lestrade!"

That's not me, either. Ten more names.

"William Anderson!"

"Sebastian Wilkes!"

"Jefferson Hope!"

Nope, nope, and nope. There are seven more names, then.

"Henry Knight!"

"Mike Stamford!"

"Victor Trevor!"

None of those are me, and there are four more names. Maybe, maybe, I won't be chosen. Two more years, and I'll never be drawn again. "Eddie van Coon!"

That isn't me either. "Sebastian Moran!"

Just two more names and—"John Watson!"

I freeze. Harry makes a tiny inhale of air. I don't look at her. If I look at my sister, I think I might cry. I slowly move past the people standing around me and move towards the stage. The announcer woman smiles at me, and instead of it being a comforting gesture, it's horrifying. I feel an uncomfortable lump in my throat and a sharp tightness in my chest.

I walk onto the stage, and it's getting quite crowded. The announcer frowns and beckons me to move, so I'm standing awkwardly at the beginning of the line of boys. I don't know anyone here. I wouldn't wish anyone I know to this fate, but I wish selfishly that I knew someone here. It's for the best, really; I won't have to kill someone I know or care about now. I'm lonely, though.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

At the last name, there's a dismayed, feminine scream. It's probably the poor guy's mother. It's not decent for her to cry during something like this, but I don't blame her. She's about to lose her son. I see movement; the next contestant is fairly close to the stage.

"Sherlock!"

I'm unprepared for the second scream. It's out of place here. No one says a word during the ceremonies, save for now. I find the speaker soon enough. It's an older woman with silver-white hair, and she charges through the people to cling desperately to a tall, dark-haired boy. The Peacekeepers make their way towards them, and the boy mutters something. I see his mouth move, but I can't hear the words. The Peacekeepers grasp the woman's arms and pull her away from him. "Sherlock!" she screams. "Please, don't! Don't! I volunteer! Don't take Sherlock!"

Beside me, Moriarty snickers, "Doesn't she know she's too old?"

"And a woman," someone else mutters.

I don't reply. The boy, Sherlock, unwaveringly walks towards the stage. The woman who'd clung to him breaks free from the Peacekeepers. "Wait, please, wait!"

Sherlock pauses and looks over his shoulder. Incredibly, the woman makes it to his arms. They embrace, and the woman pulls her scarf from her neck, placing it in Sherlock's hands, before the Peacekeepers catch her again. Sherlock stares and doesn't move. I imagine he's probably in shock. "Sherlock, dear," the announcer coos. "Will you join us up here, love?"

Sherlock casts a furious glance towards the announcer before fixing his gaze on the Peacekeepers again. He doesn't budge. "Will someone get him up here?" the announcer hisses to a Peacekeeper just off-stage.

The older woman stops struggling against them, and only then, slowly, does Sherlock Holmes move. It isn't towards the stage, though. Sherlock pauses, wraps the scarf the woman gave him around the neck, and then walks to one of the Peacekeepers restraining the woman. Another Peacekeeper comes between them at the wrong moment, and Sherlock's fist collides with the unlucky man's jaw.

The silence is broken. People scream and gasp. Never, in living history, has a tribute assaulted a Peacekeeper. Sherlock doesn't seem intent on fighting, though, because he turns quickly on his heels towards the stage. The announcer woman yells, "Quiet! Quiet now! Sherlock Holmes, show some grace and get _up here_!" There's a pause, and her voice softens and grows cheery again. "There's no need to fret, my pet. Come on. We're all nice people."

Apparently, it's the wrong thing to say because Sherlock stops abruptly and glowers at her barely a yard from the stage. "I am not _your pet_!" he snaps, "And if you would, please, do stop speaking. Your voice is about as pleasant as a peacock screaming. That is to say, not in the slightest."

Then, he steps calmly onto the stage, smiling brightly, and takes his place beside me. I'm not sure whether his defiance was brave or stupid. I glance towards the announcer, who's glaring at Sherlock, and I can already guess that he's _not _her favorite Tribute. Actually, I doubt Sherlock is _anyone's _favorite Tribute at the moment. Dear God, how is he going to get sponsors after _that _show?

I glance towards Sherlock, whose face is impassive. The announcer steps forward, casting a disdainful look over her shoulder, before she addresses the audience again. "This year's Tributes!" she declares.

"Obviously," Sherlock mutters.

The announcer continues speaking, but I don't really listen. I know the words. I feel like I'm going to faint and vomit, and a bout of hysterical laughter bubbles from my throat. "The time in the arena is inevitable," Sherlock mutters. "There's no need to be nervous, Watson."

I nearly jump and turn my gaze towards the taller boy. He looks younger than me. "I…I know," I say. "But…still."

Sherlock nods and says nothing. The announcer continues speaking, so I whisper, "Was that your mother?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, my mentor."

He touches the scarf on his neck. "She loves you," I say. "Clearly."

Enough to break over a century's worth of etiquette, risk imprisonment, and publically embarrass herself all so she could give this guy a scarf and a hug. Of course, I suppose Sherlock should be given credit for punching a man. I wonder again how he's going to get sponsors, but I don't ask. "She never had children," Sherlock replies. "I'm the closest she's got."

"Poor woman," one of the guys snickers. "All she has is the freak."

Sherlock doesn't react. I realize that Sherlock knows people here. He'll have to kill some of these people. _I _will have to kill some of these people. The thought sends my thoughts spinning into a flurry of directions. Oh, God. I'm going to _kill _people.

I always wondered about the Hunger Games. I always wondered whether killing a person was worth becoming a murderer. Well, it wasn't really _murder_, but was it worth killing an innocent person? Or becoming like the people who were forcing you to kill?

I can't think about those things. The announcer has stopped speaking and turns to us. I know what comes next. We get out final farewells. Then, we're split apart and given to our publicists and stylists. I don't know if I'll make it that far. My feet feel as heavy as lead as I follow the slow-moving stream of people off-stage. "Everything will be just fine," Sherlock mutters.

I know he's trying to comfort me, and I haven't the faintest idea _why_. We don't know each other. Maybe he's just being nice. Maybe he's trying to throw me off. It doesn't matter, though. "How can you say that?" I ask. "We might _die_."

Sherlock smirks. "Well, it could be worse, Watson. You could be a scrawny fifteen-year-old."

Well, there is that. I assume Sherlock's talking about himself because he certainly is scrawny. I'm not. I'm seventeen and fit. My father always pressured me into being strong and fit, but it was necessary. It was necessary because our family is a long line of carpenters. We build houses for the government-paid Peacekeepers that live in the Capital and shrines for Katniss Everdeen.

I actually smile a bit of Sherlock's self-depreciation. "Call me John," I say, before I can think through the implications of how intimate that is.

But if I'm going to kill him, or he's going to kill me, shouldn't we at least have some sort of respect for one another? "Of course. And you'll call me Sherlock."

"Of course."

We reach the base of the stage, and a wary-looking Peacekeeper escorts Sherlock a different way from me. Sherlock glances over his shoulder and winks. "Catch you later."

"Yeah, sure."

A Peacekeeper takes charge of me and gestures down a hallway. "This way, Mister Watson."


End file.
